“With Thorpe’s help,” suggested Peterson, “or—oh, by Jinks!” he whistled; “I think I begin to see a glimmer of a gleam of light on this mystery! Yes, I sure do! Excuse me, and I’ll fly over to the house and do a little questioning. Officer, keep friend Stebbins safe against my return.”
Arrived at Black Aspens, Peterson asked for Rudolph Braye, and was closeted with him for a secret session, from which Braye came forth looking greatly worried and perturbed.
Peterson went away, and Braye sought the others. He found them listening to a letter which Professor Hardwick had just received and which the old man was reading aloud.
“It’s from Mr. Wise,” he said to Braye, as the latter came in hearing. “He’s a detective, and he writes to me, asking permission to take up this case.”
“What a strange thing to do!” exclaimed Braye.
“Yes,” agreed Hardwick, “and he seems to be a strange man. Listen; ‘If I succeed in finding a true solution to the mystery, you may pay me whatever you deem the matter worth, if I do not, there will be no charge of any sort. Except that I should wish to live in the house with you all, at Black Aspens. I know all of the affair that has been printed in the newspapers, and no more. If you are still in the dark, I should like prodigiously to get into the thick of it and will arrive as soon as you summon me.”
There was more to the letter but that was the gist of it, and Braye listened in silence.
“I think,” he said, as the Professor finished, “that we don’t want that detective poking into our affairs.”
“I agree,” said Landon. “There’s been quite enough publicity about all this already, and I, for one, prefer to go back to New York and forget it as soon as we can.”
“We can’t forget it very soon, Wynne,” put in Milly, “but I, too, want to go back to New York.”